


With a Heart that Offends

by Schadenfreudessa



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Medical Jargon, everybody has real jobs AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfreudessa/pseuds/Schadenfreudessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent Parson had gone to Las Vegas because there was nothing left for him in Providence. He leaves Vegas years later because everything he has built there is taken away.</p><p>It's time for Kent to find what it is he really needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Heart that Offends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audiaphilios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiaphilios/gifts).



> Warning: There is some rather blunt talk about an off-screen, (very) minor character death at the beginning. In case that's not your thing.

It’s not that Kent’s life was perfect by any means.

Las Vegas was a long way from the small home in up-state New York that his mom refused to leave behind, for one. And being Las Vegas’s premier cardiovascular surgeon might have brought in a great paycheck, but erratic schedules and emergency calls often cancelled plans before he had a chance to make them. His life meant long hours with his hands in someone’s chest, followed by even longer hours slogging through meticulous (but necessary) paperwork.

Kent is self-aware, really. He knows his apartment downtown is a great location with a beautiful view of the Vegas lights, but that only Kit Purrson gets to enjoy it. He knows what it means when his coworkers are the only people he speaks with regularly, or that the best defense he has against the artificial chill of hospital air is a run in the scorching desert heat.

He likes his job, though. He’s helping people, saving lives, and it sounds tripe and cliché even in his own head, but it’s true, isn’t it? His dedication – his laser focus – his precision and coordination – they can _do something_ to help. If he can keep people alive, can make their lives better, then he can’t complain. It’s satisfying – gratifying even. It makes everything else worth it.

So he knows he’s going to miss the city, and his coworkers, his job and his apartment. When he steps into the private waiting room of the hospital, sees the family sitting stiffly in their bespoke best as the hospital’s administrator trips over his own feet to placate them, he knows. It’s just… Las Vegas was supposed to make things better, and now he doesn’t even have that any more.

 

* * *

 

The sunset is blazing brilliantly across the horizon, but the colors are diluted as they scatter through the apartment’s windows and bleed onto the hardwood floor. It would be a pretty sight, maybe, or at least an impressive one if not for the voids of shadow cut into the light by massive Vegas hotels. Kit is lying a patch of violet. She probably picked the color deliberately, stretched out in royal purple as queen of the apartment.

Kent tries for something like a smile or a rueful grin at least, but his face is too pinched and mechanical. Sitting across the table, Swoops doesn’t look convinced, frown pulled low at one side as he sloshes his drink back and forth in the bottle.

“You don’t have to worry, Parse,” Swoops offers. “That guy was nearly dead before he ever hit your table. If they try to make a case for malpractice or go after your license, they’ve got nothing.”

Kent snorts. “They’ve got enough money to go after me for the rest of my life, Swoops. They don’t need to actually win.”

“It’s just not fair,” Swoops sighs. His beer is mostly untouched still, almost certainly lukewarm and sickly after being cradled in his hand. They don’t get much time like this, usually, working for two different hospitals meant their free time almost never aligned. Normally in the late evening on a Thursday, Kent would still be in his office, trying to finish up administrative work before the weekend. Now, he gets to spend it with a friend at least, so maybe getting fired has some benefits.

Kent leaves the dregs of his own beer at the bottom of the dark bottle. “This is politics. It’s not meant to be fair.”  Something about that must be funny, because Swoops laughs loudly enough for Kit to notice. Her eyes slit open in a vicious glare for a moment, and then Swoops is talking again.

“I thought we were surgeons not Senators,” he shoots back. The humor falls short, dying out on the table between them. Swoops sighs again instead, running a hand back through the spikes of his hair and tugging at the ends. “It’s just really not fair,” he repeats softly. “You can do everything textbook perfect and that’s enough ninety-nine percent of the time. But this once you’re going to get fucked over, blacklisted from every hospital in the state and dragged through legal hell. And all because the guy’s family owns a casino or six.”

“He’s got his name on nearly half the buildings in this city,” Kent drawls. “Not even surgeons make enough to take on that kind of money.”

Swoops, finally, runs out of arguments to make. They both know how this will play out - Kent won’t lose his license and he might not even see a malpractice suit, but he also won’t find a job in this state or any surrounding ones. He’ll be tied up in legal limbo for months at least, longer if the family does try to sue. Either way, he’s pretty fucked. Swoops doesn’t know what to say in the face of that, but it’s okay, because Kent doesn’t really know what he wants to hear.

Kent tries anyway, as the alternative is trying to cuddle a contented Kit Purrson. “Besides," he argues loftily, “how can you know that I did everything perfect? Maybe I did fuck up.”

“Parson,” Swoops says. “We had six years of residency together. I _know you_. You follow all the rules to the letter just so you can gloat about it when you still perform better than anyone else.” Which certainly isn’t wrong, Kent is a competitive asshole, but it’s a terrible chirp. And for a little while, Kent supposes that will be the best distraction he can get.

 

* * *

 

It only takes three weeks for the phone calls to stop rolling in. The first few days had been just constant ringing. Now, though, everyone has offered up their sympathy, and there isn’t much left to say. No one can fix this for him, not his former coworkers, his friends from med school or residency, not even his mom. At least she keeps calling though, offering him a chance to come home.

Kent should do that. He doesn’t have income now, and the apartment is more than he can afford on savings alone – more than he even needs. But just the thought of it… there’s a slick, roiling tangle of slimy anxiety in the pit of his chest that tells him going home would be quitting. After everything his mother has done to get him here, Kent can’t go home and ask her for more. So every time his phone rings, lighting up with a picture of his mother’s lined face and thinning hair, he tells her no, that he’s fine, he’s going to wait it out here. Everything will work out okay.

The high-pitched screech of his phone at 9 am on a Saturday is a bit jarring though, the noise piercing in the silence of the apartment. Kit howls unhappily and surges off the bed in a tangle of fluff as Kent flails to reach for the phone. He might think it was his alarm if he had bothered to set it at all. Instead, he shoves the phone between his face and his pillow with what could be taken as a grunted “hello.” Whoever has called better be prepared to have a conversation muffled through the black and red fabric of his pillowcase.

“Hey – uh… Hey, Kenny.” The voice is too loud, wedged up against Kent’s ear and clear even through the crackle of bursting static. A soft and swaying monotone, always a little bit French around the vowels even after the full American college experience. It’s a hand pushing hard into Kent’s chest, reaching for a place that doesn’t exist anymore, and he curls tighter around the ache it leaves behind.

Kent breathes out slowly to keep the sigh trapped behind his teeth. “Hey Zimms.” White noise rushes up from the phone like relief, and Kent pretends to not notice.

“Hey, I heard about the, ah – well, the shit that has happened out there.”

“Oh,” Kent huffs. “Keeping tabs on me all the way down here in Vegas? Won’t that make your boy jealous?”

“Your mom is worried.” Yeah, of course she is. “She asked me to check in with you.” And of course she asked that too.

“Nothing’s changed. I’m fine,” Kent replies. The words don’t even sound real anymore, he’s said them so often now. That’s probably why they aren’t effective at all, not against the people who want to care about him. He can’t really even believe them himself. Belief takes more energy than he has.

“Maybe it’s time for something to change,” the voice suggests. It’s not unkind at least, and Kent knows that the last thing he’ll ever get from that voice is judgement or pity – not for something like this. The words still curdle like stale bile in the back of his throat; he chokes swallowing them down around his instinctive protest.

Kit is looking at him from the low table next to the bed, pupils wide. Her tail twitches impatiently to one side before she mewls softly. Kent inhales, then exhales. “What,” he rasps, “what did you have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

Providence is very different from Las Vegas. The air is cool with saltwater, and the breeze slips wetly about him as he steps from the airport and into the dim filter of early morning sunlight. The airport here is smaller than he’s used to, but every airport is the same immediately outside – a glinting sea of cars parked or idling as people bustle in and out and around. Kent shuffles to the side, edging the curb, and settles his duffel bag higher up onto his shoulder.

Kit scuffles inside her carrier, claws clicking against the plastic side with palpable and deliberate displeasure. Kent sets her gently atop his suitcase and kneels to peer inside the cage. The mottled gray of her fur is scruffy and disheveled. It pokes in patches through the side of the carrier as she settles back as far from Kent as possible. Cooing doesn’t tempt her forward, and neither does the finger that Kent crooks through the cage front. Instead, Kit blinks slowly before turning her head away from Kent altogether.

Kent takes a breath until his lungs ache with fullness. It’s as if he can make Providence feel more like home by just inhaling the timeworn pieces of history, the sedated thrum of a suburban city, and the cool, liquid air from the sea. And then he lets out the sigh that’s been building for the entire week between that phone call and now. Defeat is sour on his breath before the taste of saltwater settles onto his teeth and skin.

A low-sitting SUV pulls up just short of where Kent’s crouched, dull silver grey freckled with dust and dirt. The door swings open slowly. Kent has to press his eyes tightly closed for a beat, has to watch the bursts of sharp color spark in the darkness behind his eyelids for a long moment, and then he looks up to that voice saying, “Kent… Kenny.”

Jack stands at the roadside in a navy pullover and dark jeans. His hair is still dark black, eyes still bright blue and pulled down at the corners like he’s a bit sad. He fills out his clothes, shoulders broad under the sharp cut of his top. Kent bets that ass is still the same too, but he doesn’t feel inclined to look when he knows it isn’t welcome. And now it is different too, because gentle grey shoots through the hair at Jack’s temples, and soft folds gather at the edges of his mouth, and the hand holding tightly to the open door has been sporting a white gold wedding band for years.

Kent stands, pushing up against the sudden weight on his chest, and pulls his lips into something like a smile. It kind of hurts. “Hey Jack.”

Jack doesn’t smile, but he nods as he steps up to grab the duffel bag from Kent’s grip. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggests. He throws Kent’s bag in the back, and his suitcase too. Kent clings to Kit’s carrier, letting Jack nudge him into the passenger seat with an unhappy cat on his lap. “Sorry,” Jack apologizes inexplicably after he slips behind the wheel, and Kent blinks, an eyebrow inching higher as he stares at Jack. “I brought my work car. We weren’t… I wasn’t sure how much you would bring.”

“The furniture is in storage,” Kent explains, shrugging. “And I’m having the rest of my clothes shipped here, along with some personal stuff.”

“Good, good.” Jack starts the vehicle, and it rumbles into life a bit unsteadily. They ease away from the airport under Jack’s careful hand. Any fragile illusion of familiarity that had been preserved by the parking lot now shatters under the weight of Providence’s squat, red brick aesthetic. Kent catalogs the differences out the window of the car, Kit sitting silently under his hands.

The sun already seems less bright, muted by the solid gray of the clouds. There’s no blue in the sky at all; it feels crowded without the vast empty expanse hanging above them. Instead the sky lays heavily across the tops of the short little buildings, clouds draped like thick wool blankets from each steeple and radio tower they pass. It’s still too early for most people to be awake, so the car crawls through quiet streets alone. The silence of it all buzzes in Kent’s head, and he longs for the constant white noise of Vegas.

This city is washed out, chalky brick and dull, empty colors – merely the watercolor painting of a historic place instead of a vibrant, living city.

“We want you to be comfortable,” Jack murmurs, and Kent startles. His cheek feels chilled where it was resting against the cold car window. “I know that it’s probably weird and awkward to be living with Bits and I like this, but we want you to think of this place as home, whatever that means to you.”

Kent jerks his head in an approximation of a nod. Jack stares dutifully straight ahead at the road. “It won’t be that bad,” Kent finds himself insisting. “I’m just grateful for the place to stay.” It’s more than that, what Jack and Bitty are offering to him, but Kent doesn’t know what to call it yet. He’s not sure if he even wants whatever it is. At least this is a way to give his mom some rest, closer to home and carefully watched without mom having to do it herself.

“You didn’t even come to our wedding,” Jack points out.

“I had work.” He had had a surgery that weekend. It was even a kid, someone who deserved the very best chance at surviving. Neither Jack nor Bitty would begrudge him his absence for an excuse like that. “I sent a gift though.”

Jack chuckles softly, a near silent puff of air to signal his amusement. Kent’s mouth twitches up into a smile as well, just for a moment. “You certainly did,” Jack agrees. He seems almost delighted when Kent sneaks a glance at him, shoulders relaxing down from their tense position by his ears. “Shit, Kenny, where did you even get that thing?”

“The Internet, of course.” Where else do you get a Stanley Cup popcorn maker?

It was a pretty fucking dumb wedding gift, objectively. And it’s not like it was on their registry either. But if Kent couldn’t be at the wedding himself, he wanted to send a much more personal gift than a gravy boat or a set of kitchen knives. At the time, it had seemed silly and lighthearted enough to work, and sort of appropriate. Jack and Bitty had met playing college hockey after all, so what better way to celebrate their nuptials than with a novelty imitation of the Stanley Cup.

It seemed to have been okay with the couple, at least. Jack lapses into a contented silence for the rest of the drive. The quiet of the city is still unpleasant for Kent, boiling under his skin like something missing, but he won’t speak up himself. He doesn’t have anything to say to Jack – to anyone, but especially to Jack right now. Jack probably wants to hear about how Kent is doing, maybe even a better explanation of what happened. Kent doesn’t have an answer for those things yet.

Eventually, they pull up and park in front of a house, a massive Victorian monolith on a street full of historical homes. The whole thing is bright mint green like it was just painted, with dark green trim around the windows and the front porch. The windows are huge, even those in the attic, and the inside of the house probably glows with natural light on a sunny day. A delicate iron fence separates the surrounding yard from the sidewalk and other houses.

Jack shuts off the engine of the SUV, turning to Kent with a smile as he says, “Welcome home.” Kent presses his fingers hard against Kit’s carrier and doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

Before anything else, Kent ensures that Kit is settled in. Bitty and Jack give her free reign of the house, but Kent sets up her things in his rooms. The entire attic of the house is converted into a suite with its own bathroom and sitting area. The ceiling feels too low, especially as it slopes down over the bed. Kent doesn’t complain. He has a walk-in closet and more open space than he really has use for, so he unpacks his suitcase and duffel, arranges his toiletries around the bathroom sink, and wonders if maybe he should invest in books that aren’t related to his job just to fill out the wooden bookshelf that dominates an entire wall.

Kent sits on the bed, staring around at the antique furniture and all the pockets of empty space he can’t claim, until Bitty knocks on the door at the bottom of the attic stairs and calls up that he’s made brunch.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for Kent to learn Jack and Bitty’s routine. They are both up early in the morning – Jack for his morning run while Bitty fixes breakfast for them both (and he always leaves a plate neatly made up for Kent too, waving off Kent’s protests by saying that he is already cooking anyway so it doesn’t matter). Bitty runs his own bakery, so he is gone before the sun rises to get the work day started.

Jack sticks around a bit longer, but he’s always eaten and showered before Kent stumbles awake and out of bed. From there, Jack’s routine will vary. He co-owns a historical renovation company, and so he spends a lot of time on site or doing research on locations and the original construction methods. But every few days, Kent will walk into the kitchen and find Jack at the table, blueprints and books spread out around him as he works. He always says good morning, never demanding Kent’s time, but having someone else in the house while Kent is doing nothing makes him itch to leave.

Kent does force himself out of the house for at least a little bit each day. He runs up and down the streets of the neighborhood, ostensibly exploring though he isn’t actually paying attention. He doesn’t want to be familiar with this place, with the people who live nearby or the businesses that are crowded together just a few blocks over. But he goes out for a run, and on the days that Jack works from home, he hangs out at the library or a coffee shop for a little while. He’s pretending to go out, to be doing something, but he knows that it’s a lie he’s trying to sell to Jack, Bitty, and himself.

Mostly, though, Kent does his best to leave Jack and Bitty to their happy married life. He doesn’t eat with them except on Sundays in an awkward attempt at family dinner (because Bitty might absolutely insist on that much at least, but he can’t make Kent feel like less of a third wheel). All his photos and books and stuff stays in the attic, never migrating to any other floor. Kent hardly spends time in the rest of the house; he watches Netflix on his laptop instead of watching television, or reads in the little window seat of the attic instead of taking up space in one of the armchairs downstairs.

Sometimes, there are other people in the house, Jack or Bitty’s coworkers stopping over to talk. He avoids meeting most of them, but he’s caught off guard one evening after a nap stretches late. He ends up meeting Lardo, the artist Jack often contracts with on his restoration projects and a personal friend. She is sitting in the kitchen, the one communal space even Kent can’t avoid, smearing charcoal around in a notebook as Bitty cooks and talks. Her black hair is short and neatly spiked, but there is a dark smudge along her cheek bone and paint splattered up the sleeves of her denim jacket.

She notices Kent immediately. “Hey, you must be Kent.” Her voice is soft but confident and striking, unlike Jack’s anxious English or Bitty’s rambling cheerfulness. When Kent nods, she continues, “I’m Larissa. But call me Lardo – the rest of the crew does.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kent returns politely. He wants to leave already, to turn around and head back upstairs, but he is kind of hungry. Plus it would probably be offensive to just walk away when he clearly intended to come into the kitchen.

“You should sit down,” Lardo says before Kent can decide what to do. There’s a command behind the words, but she’s already turned back to her work. “Bitty is making orange-rum cinnamon rolls, and his baking is always worth the wait.”

Bitty smiles brightly, “I wanted to try something a little different. They’re more tart than sweet, so I had to get Lardo to be my tester instead of Jack.”

Kent sits because he feels like he should do so. Plus he does need to eat, and the kitchen already smells like warm bread and citrus. Lardo carefully pats him on the arm without comment, like Kent did something worth rewarding, and Bitty turns back to his baking and his story about how one of his staff managed to get locked inside the display case for the baked goods. Kent stays quiet, lets all the chatter and company wash around him. He eats too many cinnamon rolls, but he can just run for a little bit longer tomorrow morning.

 

* * *

 

It’s been nearly two months in Providence before Kent realizes, winter trying to stretch itself into the end of April. Kent is still floundering in the calm before a malpractice suit, and being trapped inside the house by icy showers and a constant damp chill doesn’t help. Sometimes Lardo comes for an evening, and Kent will brave the kitchen to enjoy her silent company and Bitty’s food. Her presence helps to filter the glare of Bitty’s sunny cheerfulness, make it more manageable for a short while.

Kent is extra careful to never be caught alone with Bitty, more so than with Jack or the occasional guest. He likes the man – thinks his cooking is fantastic and he distantly admires the love Bitty pours into every word and gesture. But Bitty is so bright, and to have that sunlight focused solely on Kent would certainly burn him alive. The meals and snacks left carefully wrapped are already enough to force his stomach up into his throat; the care and concern hollow out his chest because he doesn’t deserve it.

Swoops texts every day, usually just pictures of the Vegas nightlife that Kent barely participated in or surgeon meet-ups with coworkers who all miss him. There’s one that he carefully saves from April 17th, the anniversary of his first day as a surgeon at the hospital. Swoops clearly set it up, gathering the entire surgical staff and getting them to wear copies of his signature black and red Ace of Spades scrub cap. There’s a “Happy Anniversary” banner held in front of them with “miss you” scrawled along the bottom, and they’re all smiling widely at the camera.

It gets saved in multiple locations for safe keeping, but the only response he can think to send is _knew you all would pick up some fashion sense eventually_.

The reply from Swoops is instant - _wish you were around to see it_.

 

* * *

 

At the end of April, Jack’s company finishes a huge project, the one that has kept most of them occupied throughout the year, and it’s as if the house is suddenly buoyant. Kit is playful, happy to be loved on and even approaching Kent without prompting for once. Jack comes home laughing already, carefully tucking his shoes away before chasing down Bitty in the house. He picks his husband up, spinning him around in the hallway. Kent practically flees back up the stairs just to escape before they can suck each other’s faces off.

He leaves them to it, and the Sunday dinner ends up being a bit later than normal, but Kent doesn’t complain. The vegetarian lasagna is deliciously cheesy, as he likes best, and Jack is carrying the dinner conversation practically by himself. He’s rambling about all the troubles this project had given them, renovating a seaside port office that had been left exposed to saltwater for far too long. Plus the city had requested that a dock be built to match the one destroyed nearly a hundred years ago, and the historical records of the place had been as weathered as the building itself.

Kent listens, and Bitty hums the appropriate noises of encouragement until Jack runs out of steam. The Bittle-Zimmermanns just look so damn proud to be sitting there in their old house together, Bitty especially as he brings out a fresh apple pie. His cheeks are flushed. His face is stretched and dimpled around a massive, blinding grin.

“We should actually celebrate,” Jack says before shoveling a forkful of pie into his mouth. Kent could almost laugh at how his cheeks are puffed out to accommodate the bite. Bitty definitely snickers himself, but doesn’t comment on the childish way his husband is eating.

“Did you have something in mind, sweetheart?” he asks instead, cutting an overly-thick slice and serving it to Kent. God, it looks heavenly, dripping with caramelized sugar and a juicy spiced apple filling. Kent can barely keep himself from moaning and burying his face into the plate.

Jack struggles to get that mouthful of food down, and he only pauses for a moment to speak before eating again. “Just something for the crew. Here at home, maybe.”

“Well they’ve certainly earned a bit of a party,” Bitty laughs. “I could throw together a family dinner for next Saturday, and some of the wilder ones can stick around after for some drinks too.”

There’s a moment of silent consideration from Jack – or maybe he’s just savoring the pie a bit more – and then he nods, turning to Kent. “Would that work for you, Parse?”

Blinking, Kent lowers his fork down away from his open mouth and sits up straighter. “Uh yeah," he stammers slightly. “I’ll just… I can keep out of your way easy enough.”

Jack is frowning sharply as Kent trails off. Bitty looks almost worried, eyes cast down and his brow pushed into a sharp v-shape before the expression smooths away. Instead, he looks coolly determined, the same confident face that demanded Kent eat dinner with them at least once a week. “Don’t be silly, Kent,” Bitty snips. “You’ve put up with Jack’s months of moodiness the same as the rest of us. You deserve to celebrate too, have a little fun for a night.”

It doesn’t sound like Bitty’s just talking about the potential party anymore. The pie in front of him loses its appeal, looking cold and congealed inside a soggy crust. Kent stands and pushes away from the table. “Right… right, yeah, I would never turn down the chance to party, sure.”

That was probably more convincing in his head. Kent winces, knowing how ungrateful and pathetic he sounds, but he leaves anyway, like he always has before. He just makes sure to carefully shut the door at the bottom of the stairs instead of carelessly slamming it.

 

* * *

 

The next Saturday passes slowly for Kent. He leaves first thing in the morning, before even Bitty or Jack are awake. They’re going to be busy enough setting up for the dinner and after-party that they won’t have time to track him down even if they might want to. He runs straight for a local park a few miles away instead of wandering aimlessly through the narrow suburban streets. He doesn’t stop moving once he’s there, dropping into a stretching routine and then moving onto some yoga he remembered from the class Swoops had dragged him to occasionally.

Kent wastes hours in the late April weather, where it’s still cold in the shade of the old trees.  He works until his muscles are shaking with overexertion, sweat clinging to his skin and clothes in sheets that quickly chill and leave him shivering. When he finally comes limping back to the house, his knee screaming in protest to the strain he’s put on his body, all the commotion and preparing is contained to the kitchen. Kent slips up the stairs to his rooms without attracting any attention from the multiple bodies working away.

He doesn’t have any ice, so Kent fills the bath as cold as he can manage from the tap before climbing in for a short soak. He is going to hate himself tomorrow when the real soreness sets in, but Kent is so worn down that it’s easy to let his mind drift without thinking about any particular thing. He heaves himself out of the cold water after he’s suitably numb. At least in the privacy of these rooms, it doesn’t matter that he has to practically crawl from the bathroom and up into his bed, taking refuge and trying to get warm again under the thick pastel comforter that came with the rest of the decor.

Kit perches on the solid oak headboard above him, and Kent naps until the buzzer on his phone says he has an hour to get ready. Then he just showers, throws on a clean t-shirt and jeans, and heads down into the maddening fray.

The dinner isn’t supposed to start for another half-hour, but already the first floor of the house is packed with people. There are children running around between the legs of adults and under the table. The dining room is actually seeing some use, but mostly as the stage for a massive buffet. Bitty has a team of three young men working set up and dragging plates from the kitchen to the long table – employees and friends from his bakery, most likely. Each dish is large enough to hold an average-sized toddler, and they are all brimming over with food. Kent spies one kid eyeing up a bowlful of cheesy macaroni, but he’s leaning towards the mounds of chicken wings himself.

It’s actually easy to blend into the crowd as the house gets fuller. Jack and Bitty aren’t around to force introductions on him, and there’s so many people that no one pays Kent much mind. He presses into the back corner of the living room, farthest away from where people are all knotted around the hosts. Bitty gives some kind of speech, or maybe it’s Jack – the sound of it is lost to the happy shrieks of children. Everyone gives a huge cheer though, and then descend in one savage mass onto the food.

Kent is one of the last to get food, mounding his plate high so he can eat up in his room. He makes sure to catch Bitty’s eye before escaping, though, and to give a bit of a wave to let the man know he’s here. Kent pretends not to see when Bitty tries to wave him over into the conversation he’s having with a tall black woman and her girlfriend.

The plan only catches on a snag once he gets to the stairs, which are blocked by the body of a towering giant of a man. He’s got his back to Kent, leaning against the railing and gesturing wildly to the person in front of him. They’re talking about potatoes, it sounds like, but between the man’s thick Russian accent and the noise of the party, Kent can’t follow. He flounders a bit, not wanting to draw attention by asking the man to move, but not having any other way to get around him.

Well, politeness isn’t really Kent’s strongest skill anyway, so he compromises by slipping past the guy. He has to duck under one gesticulating arm to do so, and rubs the entire front of his body against the man’s hip in a way that could probably get him arrested just to squeeze past. There’s a noise of alarm from the man, a flash of soft brown eyes, and then Kent bolts up through the second floor of the house and into the attic. The noise up here is dimmed significantly, but Kent slips on some headphones anyway. He settles into the bed with a plateful of delicious food and a full line-up of Netflix documentaries to watch, ready to spend the night alone.

 

* * *

 

Kent wakes up to the wish that he was dead. His body is definitely getting revenge this morning, the light just creeping into his bedroom as every muscle he has hurts by just existing. He definitely overworked himself the day before, and sitting up in bed is the worst type of struggle. He blinks blearily for a moment, his laptop closed and set onto the end-table next to the bed, along with the plate that had been holding his dinner. Kit is mysteriously absent from her usual perch on the headboard, but from the sounds of cooking that are filtering up from downstairs, Jack or Bitty has probably already opened the door for her.

That leaves Kent alone to claw his way out of bed. It’s not pretty or dignified by any means, and he ends up spilling onto the floor in a painful, moaning heap. But he does get his feet back eventually. He manages to make it to the bathroom and brushes his teeth – hot wings don’t taste nearly as good the morning after, and the clean feeling helps make him feel a little more put together despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s almost like waking up the morning after a med school mixer, but with less hangovers and more self-loathing. He didn’t even do anything fun to deserve the pain.

Kent stumbles back into his bedroom with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes until sparks burst in a multitude of bright colors. He crafts a new plan for today in his head, shuffling across the carpet towards the stairs. Kent will go downstairs and eat whatever breakfast Bitty is concocting, actually sticking around to eat with him and Jack as an apology for last night. It will suck to spend the entire meal trying not to notice the concerned frowns and disappointed gazes of the couple, but Kent definitely deserves it.

A sad, pitiful mewl makes Kent stop halfway across the room, though. It had sounded like Kit, but muffled by something, and Kent stands quietly in place until she speaks up again. Kit’s call is coming from the closed door of the closet, and Kent frowns sharply. The door had been closed last night, so someone would have had to deliberately close her in there. It doesn’t seem like something Jack or Bitty would do, but the thought that Kit was locked in a dark closet all night is enough to work through any soreness. Kent stomps over to the door and flings it wide open.

He’s rather startled when a large man comes tumbling out and spilling onto the floor at his feet. It’s the Russian man from last night, but now Kent gets a good long look at him as the man struggles to get his bearings. His eyes are warm, velvet brown and droopy above a long, rounded nose and a wide mouth. He’s wearing a baseball hat sideways over fluffy hair that curls around his corded neck and huge ears. He should look rather dopey, blinking up at Kent in confusion, but it’s kind of charming.

When the man smiles brightly through what must be a hangover, he looks like an over-sized happy puppy – maybe naive, maybe trusting. “Is you!” he says quietly, accent even thicker than last night. “Good to see again!”

It’s… well, it’s not that Kent isn’t appreciative to see the man again because he’s definitely enjoying that extra look at the attractive Russian, but the circumstances are a bit unusual, and Kent is too tired to pick apart what is happening on his own. “Why are you in my closet?” seems as good a place to start as any.

“Ah," the man stammers. He gets awkwardly up to his feet, not all that coordinated and obviously stiff from sitting in Kent’s not-that-big closet. The man ends up standing nearly pressed to Kent’s front, and Kent has to crane back just to meet his the man’s eyes. He’s so tall that’s he’s stooped forward from the sloping ceiling, curled over and into Kent’s personal space. Kent doesn’t step back.

“I am most sorry," the man continues, wringing his large hands in front of his body (Kent is not distracted by them, but they are just very large and practically right in front of his face). “I try to hide from very pushy woman, come up here to get away. Think if I hide in closet in attic, woman not come all the way up to look. Forget that someone is living here now, so am very sorry to disturb.”

Kent stares throughout the explanation, then takes a deep breath and rubs at his face again. “Okay," he says, drawing out the vowels. “But why did you stay all night?”

Now the man looks even more sheepish, shoulders pulling up into a sloppy shrug and faint pink blossoming on his cheeks. “Cat follow me into closet. I sit to wait for short while, and cat sits on me. So can’t move until cat moves.”

There’s nothing good that can come from finding a large, attractive Russian man with a deep love for cats in Kent’s closet. It’s the worst kind of problem he could possibly have when his life is shit and Kent just wants to sleep for the next decade. But there’s nothing he can do about it right now besides move on.

“So, I’m just gonna go get some breakfast," Kent falters. He starts to move back towards the stairs again, not at all ready to deal with the strange man in his bedroom.

The man stops him, his grin wide and bright and entirely unabashed again. He thrusts a hand out like he expects Kent to shake it. “I am Alexei, but crew is calling me Tater.”

At this point, a nickname like Tater doesn’t even seem all that strange, so Kent firmly shakes Tater’s hand and nods. “I’m Kent.”

 

* * *

 

They head downstairs to the kitchen, Tater following clumsily behind Kent. In the kitchen, Bitty is bent over the oven and pulling out a large tray. The room smells like cinnamon, butter, and fresh bread; the air is warm with good food and the rising sun that pours in through the windows. Jack is at the table, head pillowed on his arms and hair sticking up like someone rubbed a balloon through it. He’s murmuring something in French that makes Bitty laugh as he sets the tray on a rack to cool.

Bitty turns around and sees them – sees Kent clearly just waking up with a large, disheveled man close behind him, and his eyes fly wide open. “Oh!” he exclaims, the noise cracking and pitchy. He manages a stumbling, “Good morning, Kent. _Tater_.” There’s definitely extra emphasis on Tater’s name. Jack’s head pops up, and his frown pulls the creases at the corners of his mouth into sharp relief.

“Tater?” Jack greets questioningly. Kent steps farther into the kitchen, settling himself into the corner to just hover out of the way. He wishes for something else to focus on so that he can more easily avoid Bitty’s puzzled gaze.

“Most sorry to be interrupting. Was hiding last night, you know, from Melissa, and fall asleep in upstairs closet,” Tater apologizes again, but now to Jack and Bitty. He’s still in the doorway to the kitchen, stooped low even though the ceilings here aren’t low enough to necessitate it. Tater fidgets the hem of his rumpled t-shirt. Bitty keeps looking from him to Kent and back, but doesn’t say a word.

Jack frown grows sharper. “Lardo’s assistant – that Melissa?”

“Yes, you invite other Melissa’s too?” Tater shoots back with long-practiced ease. Jack flounders a bit, stuttering that _no, he only knows one Melissa_. Bitty’s wide-eyed staring crinkles under the force of his snickering, and he turns back to the breakfast food, picking up a large bowl and stirring it. Jack doesn’t let the teasing derail him for long.

“So you spent the night in Kent’s closet?”

Tater nods. “Cat trap me. I not able to leave,” he says seriously. The hostage-holding cat in question makes her own entrance into the kitchen, brushing against Kent’s legs with a demanding meow. Kent glares at her a bit – all this weirdness is definitely her fault somehow – but he sighs and pets her gently, just a bit. He looks up and sees Tater smiling at him again, the light catching in the man’s eyes before he turns back to Jack. He admits, “Was also little drunk too.”

Sighing, Jack turns back to the table and draws out the chair next to him. “Well you might as well join us for breakfast. Bitty made french toast."

“Bitty made baked-cinnamon-latte french toast with cream cheese glaze,” Bitty corrects as he drizzles the glaze over the pan. It smells sweet and tart, and the glaze is bubbling over the hot bread when Bitty sets the tray in the center of the table. He takes the seat across from Jack and pats the spot next to him. “Get over here and tell me how delicious my food is, Kent Parson.”

Kent does sit, wincing as the chair squeaks across the floor. His shoulders are pulled tightly forward with tension, and his muscles protest loudly. Bitty picks up the conversation, asking about last night and Melissa’s apparent fascination with Russian accents. Tater laughs with his entire body, deep and rich enough to shake through his chest. And he is nearly always grinning with delight around mouthfuls of food that he proclaims to be delicious. Kent eats with his head ducked low, watching the happy giant across from him and wondering why he ever bothered to keep such an asshole cat.

 

* * *

 

That should be the end of it, probably. Tater should be too ashamed of his weird drunken antics to ever show his face around the house again and Kent should know better than to think about the attractive man who hid in his bedroom. Bitty and Jack take an impromptu vacation to visit family for the next week. Kent has the house to himself and Kit, and he should really just enjoy the solitude and prepackaged meals that Bitty has left behind.

Things don’t turn out like that.

In fact, things go veering wildly off course and plunge off the edge of a cliff when Kent is coming back from his daily run on Monday and finds Tater standing in the front yard, making faces at Kit through the window. He is waving, and Kit is pawing at the window in imitation. It’s really kind of fucking cute, so much so that Kent’s grip on the front gate spasms hard, and he has to clear his throat. Basketball shorts and a long white t-shirt do nothing to hide Tater’s fantastic ass, really.

The gate squeals when Kent pushes it open, and Tater turns around with a smile already prepared. “Kent Parson, good morning!”

"Uh, hey.... Tater," Kent says. He's immediately aware of how he is panting, chest still heavy from his run, and it makes him sound breathless. His face is hot, probably flushed red, and for fucks sake, he is _not_ from some bodice ripper. Kent looks away, walking up to the front porch. "Jack and Bitty aren't here, you know."

"Yes, they say going to visit family. Jack give the whole company week off too." Tater steps out of the yard and follows Kent. Even standing several steps lower than Kent, Tater is very nearly taller than him, and he apparently possesses a propensity for leaning into Kent's personal space at every opportunity.

Kent pauses at the door. He feels a little boxed in with the house at his back, even though Tater is still at the bottom of the steps. "So was there something you needed?" Kent asks.

"Well," Tater starts, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm not have time to go to parents, and no work to do, so I'm thinking that I visit Kent Parson!"

"Uh, okay?"

"Yes, spend time with friend best way to not be getting bored." The sun is peaking through light cloud cover, and it dances across Taters grin. His hair is fluffy and golden brown without a hat pressed down over it, curling down across his forehead. Kent pushes back the sweaty, limp hair from his own face.

“Yeah… alright, so,” Kent tries haltingly, then swallows. He’s thirsty and hot and sweaty and gross, and he wants to go inside. Preferably without company, but inside with a guest is better than outside with a guest, at least. “You should come inside.”

Tater bounds up the steps before Kent even has the door open. Kent waves him in first, but while Tater stops to greet Kit with baby talk and scritches, Kent heads straight for the kitchen. He grabs a sports drink from the fridge and quickly knocks it back, drinking a quarter before stopping to breathe. His stomach feels a little cramped and knotted; Kent should probably eat breakfast. It would be rude to eat without offering something to Tater, though.

Kent steps back out into the foyer and hangs awkwardly around the door. Tater’s pet talk sounds like it must be Russian, but Kit is allowing the interaction anyway. “Do you want something to like eat?” Kent manages to get out.

“No, thank you," Tater says as he glances up at Kent. His eyes look even softer when he peers up through his lashes, more inviting and flecked with light specks of hazel green. His hands never stop moving over a smug-looking Kit. “Am already eating this morning.”

“Oh well, I’m gonna – I kind of need to clean up a bit before, y’know, anything else." What do you do with a guest while you’re taking a shower, though?

“Okay,” Tater agrees, “I stay here with best cat.” Kit meows, like she is agreeing to stay with Tater as well, or maybe to being the best cat.

“Her name is Kit,” Kent offers for lack of anything better to stay.

Tater’s brow pulls low for a minute, “Kit?”

“Yeah – yeah, her name is Kit Purrson.” It’s not a dumb name at all, or conceited, and there’s probably a good reason Kent named her that, but he was apparently too drunk at the time to bother remembering it. The name just stuck, really, and never went away.

“Oh, I see,” Tater laughs. “You get name after best cat. Kit Purrson so great that you take name Kent Parson.”

Good god, that should not be funny. Kent laughs anyway because Tater’s tongue is poking out from the corner of his mouth and his smile is so damn pleased that Kent is feeling a little lightheaded. His knees knock together awkwardly as he turns and flees up the stairs, calling out, “I’ll be quick,” behind him.

 

* * *

 

Kent is back less than ten minutes later. He feels clean at least, but the constant awareness that Tater is downstairs had driven him to fly through a shower and getting dressed. His hair is still wet, even, and hastily finger-combed into something like his usual side-swept style.  In that time, Tater has migrated to the living room, fully laid out on the floor with Kit purring on his chest. Her tail flicks back and forth as Kent watches, managing to whack Tater’s nose, but he just huffs pleased little noises each time.

“So, uh,” Kent starts with a stammer, “Did you have something in mind for things to do?”

Tater sits up, carefully displacing Kit from his chest to his lap as he answers. “Was think that Kent not here in Providence for very long yet. Maybe we go see tourist places? I can show you all best places to visit here.”

And, well, Kent hasn’t exactly gone out to play tourist in the city. He doesn’t know a damn thing about Providence beyond the few blocks he has covered in his running. It could be nice to see some things, get some pictures to send to Swoops and his mom, to keep them and Jack and Bitty from worrying quite so much.

“Yeah, sure,” Kent can hear himself saying. “That sounds good.” Tater’s smile is so bright that it has to be visible from space.

 

* * *

 

They leave the house almost immediately, only pausing so that Kent can ensure that Kit is settled and that he has his wallet. It’s been a while since he has actually gone out for more than a run, and his movements feel rusty. Something cold settles behind the lungs in his chest, a fear that if grabbing his wallet and keys can feel so unfamiliar, then the practiced motions of suturing and cutting will feel even worse should he get the chance to practice again. Kent swallows that down, though, forcing a bland, placid mask onto his face before turning back to Tater.

The Russian man doesn’t say where they are going first, just tells Kent to follow him and then walks out the front door. There’s an SUV parked up the street, bulkier than Jack’s work vehicle, and nicer with its dark exterior and tinted windows. Tater unlocks the door, humming quietly and indistinctly as he gestures for Kent to get in the passenger seat. Kent wants to ask what they’re going to do, exactly, but he bites the back of his lip instead. The interior of the SUV is just as dark as the outside, and Tater pulls out onto the road without even looking.

Kent grips the hand rest on the door a little bit. He doesn’t let go the entire drive. Tater winds rather recklessly through city streets, taking corners fast enough that Kent is pretty sure the car is leaning. They skirt along the edges of the shoreline for a while, and Kent catches glimpses of sail boats and the stretch of the sea beyond through gaps between buildings. They end up in a large park as the city suddenly parts around them and gives way to well-trimmed grass and carefully aligned rows of trees.

Tater stops well inside the boundaries of the park; there’s nothing but trees and nature to see behind them. In front of Kent is a large arch decorated with the faces of numerous animals and a sign for a zoo. Tater plows right on forward, forced to walk sideways as he talks animatedly to Kent.

“This is very good zoo,” he assures Kent. “Lots of space for animals to live and move inside.”

Kent nods as he follows Tater. He hasn’t been to the zoo in ages, since he was a child. Even then, it was never really his favorite place. He mostly only enjoyed the trips there with his mom if they spent most of the day with the large cats (he has a type, and it is anything feline). Tater is so clearly overjoyed to be sharing this, though, his arms flapping about wildly as he tries to explain how sometimes you can get to feed the seals, and how they flop around on land after you’ve done so. His type of animal is apparently any animal.

Things get uncomfortable when it comes to getting tickets, because they both want to pay for Kent’s. “I’m bringing you here with no warning, no ask,” Tater demands, “so of course I pay ticket.” Kent relents, but only after extracting a promise that he’ll pay his own way from here on out.

The zoo is exactly like Tater described, with sprawling habitats for each animal to run or play or sleep in as they chose. Different trails cut through the area, but they all circle around the wetlands in the center, so Kent and Tater decide it doesn’t much matter where they start. They’ll eventually get to everything. It’s nice – the weather is nice, and the zoo is mostly empty because it’s a Monday morning in April. Tater knows the name of every single animal in each habitat, and he happily tells Kent a personal story about each one.

“And Thirdy’s daughter, Maria, she just keep standing right in front of glass. Bear is in front of her, standing and making noisy growls, and she not even bothered!” Tater laughs loudly. He is pointing to the loud, curious bear in question, who is currently snooping through some low bushes in his shelter, a few yards from the glass observation windows. “Bear was not trying to be mean, don’t think, just asking little girl questions,” Tater explains, defending said bear’s character. “But other mamas get scared and panic even though Maria not mind. Thirdy very proud.”

“Oh wow,” Kent says as the bear stands up on its hind legs. It’s a very tall, bulky beast, but the way its head is cocked to the side almost reminds Kent of the man at his side. “She must be a very brave little girl,” he breathes. The bear falls back to all four paws with a loud thud. Kent swears he can feel it shake the earth all the way over here.

Later, as Tater’s stream of fun zoo stories starts to dry up, Kent scrambles to fill up the silence. “So, ah, Thirdy is your coworker?” It seems like a safe guess to make. Kent knows that Tater works with Jack, and he’s pretty sure that there was someone named Thirdy at the company celebration a few nights ago.

It shouldn’t be quite so relieving when Tater nods, but Kent might be a little proud to say that he _knows_ something about Tater’s life, no matter how minuscule. “Thirdy is electric guy. He is best at doing new things with old buildings, make them nice for people to enjoy now,” Tater answers, and he looks a little proud too.

“That sounds pretty cool,” Kent responds. It does, even though it’s really different from his own career. But he can see the appeal in having a rather niche specialty, in doing something that most people don’t even think about at all. “Do you like your work?”

“Yes, very much. I’m good with hands all my life, but this work is special, requires extra things. Extra patient, extra practice to do things like in old days.” Tater wiggles his fingers between them, like Kent needed the reminder about how good those hands could possibly be. They stop together in front of the giraffe habitat, and before Kent can pester him with any more questions, Tater has one of his own. “Want to feed giraffes?” he asks.

And yes, Kent really does want to feed the giraffes.

 

* * *

 

Tater had managed to talk Kent into sharing his phone number at the end of their zoo visit, so the next day Kent’s run ends with a text.

_Going to beach today )))_

Kent stares at it, then sighs and heads upstairs to shower and actually fix his hair this time, going for carefully tousled instead of truly distressed. It’s still pretty chilly, and if they’re at the seaside it will be even cooler. Kent pulls on a fuzzy, well-worn hoodie over his shirt and jeans. He hopes Tater doesn’t expect them to swim today.

There is no swimming, thank goodness, because the wind blowing across the beach leaves Kent’s hands clammy as it is. He and Tater walk over dark shale to reach the sand, and it’s not at all like the beach Kent was imagining. There stones are flat and huge, rocky outcroppings with sharp sheared edges that push out over the water. The stretches of sandy beach are irregular, like last minute afterthoughts to break up the low-sitting stone cliffs.

They just walk for a while, and Kent keeps being drawn to Tater. His hair is pushed back by the wind, the soft waves of it bouncing with each change in the breeze. There’s no sun today; it’s lost behind a thick layer of gray clouds. Impossibly, though, the weak light still catches on Tater’s eyes. The tips of his ears are sticking out neatly, the tips of them chapped red with the chill. He looks unreal with the endless ocean and sky framing the whole of his body.

Kent tries to rub the cold out of his nose, knowing that he’s got to be lit up brighter than Rudolph. He catches Tater glancing sideways at him and tries not to tense up too visibly. “What?” he asks, a bit more snappish than he would like.

“Would like to ask you question,” Tater says placidly. Kent waves at him dismissively, hunching up tighter under his hoodie and shoving his hands into the pocket. “Jack tells us he has friend coming, from Las Vegas,” the Russian continues, “but nothing else. I just wanting to know more about you. Like job or family.”

“Ah,” Kent starts, hesitating. “I was- I am a surgeon, a cardiovascular surgeon. You know, saving lives, helping people… that kind of stuff.”

“That is operating on heart, yes?” Tater clarifies with a frown. Kent nods.

“Yeah, heart and blood vessels and stuff.”

“Must have very good hands – best hands – to do such work,” Tater whistles, eyes wide and looking pretty impressed. Kent can feel his ears and cheeks heating up with a proper flush, and he kind of hates his body for it.

“Well, it was something I liked,” Kent shrugs.

“If like, why leave Vegas?”

If Kent shoves his hands any farther into his pockets, he might lose them. “I just needed to,” he answers stiffly. Tater nods and smiles like this makes perfect sense. “What do you do exactly?” Kent deflects. “With Jack’s company, I mean.”

“I am carpenter,” Tater answers. He laughs, too. “Must have good hands for it, and patience, but not like Kent have good hands.”

“I’m sure your hands are perfectly fine,” Kent stutters out. He kind of wants to die as he says it, and the flush spreads down to the back of his neck. “How did you get into carpentry?”

Tater has to be blind because he doesn’t even blink at Kent being so fucking awkward. “I come over from America when just dumb kid – follow brother when he leave Russia. He play hockey for living, but I work in construction, only job that will take me. Zhenya, he work hard to take care of us, always working and travelling, so I bring home wood scraps and carve them in spare time. Like learning way things made in history, get books from library to teach self.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Kent mutters. “Getting to work on historical buildings and stuff.” He can hardly look straight at Tater as he’s speaking. The man looks so delighted to be sharing this, and they’ve walked for so long now that they should probably turn back, but Tater doesn’t look like he wants to stop anytime soon. He keeps getting closer to Kent too, nearly shoulder to shoulder now, and whenever Tater gestures with his hands, his elbow brushes against Kent’s arm.

“I really like to do things with hands, so is very fun for me,” Tater agrees. He blinks then, and steps even closer to Kent, their arms pressed together. Tater frowns, “You are red from cold.”

“What? Oh no, I’m fine,” Kent tries to protest, but Tater shakes his head.

“We should go back now, get food and warm up.”

Kent tries again, putting his hands up between himself and Tater. “Really, it’s fine.” Tater just grabs Kent and turns him easily around, though, forcing Kent gently back towards the car. He stays close, a hand sitting low on Kent’s back to keep him moving. Kent shivers at how it spans nearly the entirety of his back.

“You must be most cold,” Tater frowns again. He pulls his hand away and strips off his own jacket despite Kent’s noise of alarm, draping it over Kent’s shoulders and pulling it closed in the front.

His face is so hot that Kent must be glowing like a small star. “Now you’ll be cold," he protests, but Tater laughs.

“I am Russian, not get cold," he teases. “Not like Vegas boy.”

“I’m from New York!” Kent insists. Tater just laughs harder, loud and booming over the sound of waves crashing in from the sea.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday sees Tater dragging Kent out to lunch at a small diner, and then on a walking tour of historic Providence. “You ask about work yesterday,” Tater explains, “so I think I show you places I work on today?” It’s phrased like a question, Tater’s voice lilting up uncertainly at the end, but Kent thinks that actually sounds pretty cool. He would like to see some of the things that Tater can create with his hands.

The end up walking through all the buildings on the Mile of History, following a little tour pamphlet that Kent picked up. The houses along the street are from all different times and styles, going all the way back to the first settlers in America. Tater points out the things he worked on, explaining the challenges of each project and what he had to do to fix things.

“This house entirely wood-frame,” Tater mentions when the reach the Governor Stephen Hopkins House. It’s one of the oldest on the block, according to their little guidebook, and belonged to one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence. Tater doesn’t mention that, but he talks about the house itself.

“Was a very big project for me, having so much wood things.” Tater chuckles, shaking his head. “Not want to get help from anyone else to make things, but have to let teammates do actual construction while I do other work.”

“What happened?” Kent asks.

“Storm damage wood siding and break few windows. I have to make new panels for outside of house, do everything with hands like in old days, and takes very long time.”

The house itself looks immaculate. Even when Tater points out what he worked on and details the damage, Kent just can’t see it. The old and the new restorations blend seamlessly together. “I can’t even tell there was anything wrong,” he tells Tater, and Tater grins.

“Means we do job well!” he announces, and Kent smiles himself. One of the house staff shushes them as Tater crows proudly, and they quickly move on so as not to bother anyone else.

Once they get outside, Tater’s hand settles on Kent’s back again. He’s been doing a lot of that – touching – not that Kent is going to complain. Tater is radiating heat like an effusive Russian bonfire, and even though it isn’t as cold today, Kent soaks it up in pleased silence. He likes it, okay? He likes that this bubbly, over-the-top man just casually touches him like it’s not a big deal to him, that Kent is just someone in his life who he feels comfortable touching.

Tater’s hand doesn’t move from Kent’s back for the rest of their morning, shifting sometimes as needed, but he’s always touching Kent. Sometimes he even leans in over Kent’s shoulder to read the guidebook or point something out. The urge to lean back into Tater, to soak up all that heat and let it warm him to the core, tempts Kent more fiercely than anything else has in a long while.

They have to drive to their afternoon destination. It’s a little far from the other locations, but Tater seems really excited for it so Kent can’t complain even if he wanted to. The place is a posh, towering brick mansion, and the ornate sign in front reads the Lippitt House Museum. There’s a fountain gushing steadily to one side of the house, and the front door is located behind two massive columns.

“This is most favorite project,” Tater says as the join a tour group standing just outside. Kent doesn’t see it – the house is brick, so it doesn’t seem like there would be much for a carpenter to do. Tater tells him, “You see inside and understand.”

And when they walk in, Kent does get it. The interior is absolute decadence given physical form, opulence dripping from the ceiling in heavy, ornate chandeliers. There is elaborately decorated wood trim in every room, hand-carved banisters running along the stairs, and meticulously shined wooden floors. It’s absolutely gorgeous, so rich with history and old wealth that Kent’s feels smothered and small in the building.

Tater puts an arm around his shoulders, holding them to the back of the group and leaning down to speak quietly in Kent’s ear. “Railing on stair get damaged by wedding few years ago,” he murmurs. “Too broken to just repair, so I replace whole section. Had to carve decorations by hand and takes me so long. I have to be careful that each piece is perfect and matches others.”

“That’s just," Kent breathes softly. He’s speechless – he’s flustered to have Tater around him, speaking so intimately with him, and while he’s sure it’s just so they don’t draw the wrath of the tour group upon themselves, he wants it to be something more. It’s all so much, and he yearns for it after such a long time of having nothing at all. “That’s amazing," Kent finally says, and it’s not adequate for what he’s thinking or feeling.

“Thank you,” Tater huffs sincerely, and then he leans back to listen to the tour guide. He keeps the arm around Kent’s shoulders, though, and Kent doesn’t pull away.

 

* * *

 

The text from Tater comes later than usual on Thursday with lunch time already bleeding into the late afternoon.

_Like hockey, yes?_

Kent replies, curious, _Used to play as a kid, so yeah._

He just gets a string of eyeless smiley faces in response, and then another text saying to be ready by 5.

It’s closer to a quarter past by the time Tater drives up in front of the house, but Kent doesn’t mind. Tater doesn’t get out of the car, just waves at Kent to come join him, and Kent does. Kit meows angrily as he shuts the door, not happy that her favorite human isn’t going to come into the house for scritches this time. Kent ignores her.

Tater is sitting in the car and practically vibrating out of his seat. He tries to hurry Kent into getting into the car, and he peels out into traffic before Kent has even gotten his seat-belt on. Tater’s wearing a Pittsburgh Penguins jersey, number 71, and Kent belatedly remembers that the Penguins are playing the Boston Bruins tonight.

“So I guess we’re watching the game tonight,” Kent says. Maybe they’ll watch it at Tater’s place or a sports bar (though Tater’s place would be the best, quiet and intimate with just the two of them). For all that Tater obviously wants to speed, the traffic is terrible, and they’re barely crawling. There is a punk kid in the backseat of the car next to him making faces out the window. So Kent flips him off.

“Yes, watch Penguins beat dumb Boston team," Tater agrees affably. “Be lots of fun to go, best way to watch hockey, you know.”

Kent stops harassing the kid in the other car and turns sharply back to Tater. “Wait, we’re going to the game? Like actually going to be at the game!”

Tater shoots a confused look at Kent before looking forward again. “Game is in Boston. I thought you might like to see.”

“See Sidney Crosby live – of course I would like to see that!” Kent snorts. “Just, how the hell did you even get tickets? It’s a _playoff game_!”

“Brother give me,” Tater responds, but before Kent can demand more answers, he continues. “Are you Penguins fan? Must be; are a doctor so too smart to be Bruins fan.”

Kent laughs, “Well, I’m a Crosby fan at least. But I’m a New Yorker – give me my Rangers any day”.

Tater’s mouth drops open as he stares at Kent, looking absolutely horrified. “Rangers? No!”

 

* * *

 

The game is fantastic. Tater wears his Penguins jersey with obvious pride despite all the dirty looks he gets from Boston fans. He even has a spare one for Kent to wear, and it’s a Crosby jersey, so Kent puts it on. The thing is huge on him. Kent has to roll up the sleeves past his elbow, and the hemline is halfway down his thighs. He really kind of likes it.

They have ridiculously good seats, too, sitting just in front of the luxury boxes on the lower terrace. Kent is gaping while he looks around, then stares up at Tater wide-eyed. “Does your brother fucking own the Bruins, holy shit?”

Laughing, Tater shakes his head, “Zhenya has better taste than Bruins, Kent.”

Tater is also quite possibly the most enthusiastic fan in the entire arena. He yells raucously when the Penguins first take the ice, and every time after as well. He almost never sits down, and yeah, Kent loves hockey, but he’s got nothing on Tater’s commitment to being a Penguins fan. Tater seems to take it personally whenever a Penguin gets hit hard or knocked around. Kent gets swept up in his enthusiasm too, often jumping to his feet right alongside Tater and yelling.

When Crosby gets the first goal of the game off an assist from Malkin, they both go nuts. “Yeah!” Kent is screaming. “That’s the way to do it!” Tater is shouting in Russian, but the sentiment sounds the same, and he sweeps Kent up into a victory celly. Kent is lifted completely off his feet, pulled into a hard, tight hug with Tater’s cheek pressed against his. His heart kicks into overdrive, and Kent clings as much as he can to the body in front of him. The Penguins haven’t even won yet.

It’s such a great game. The Bruins get absolutely slaughtered with a final score is 4-1, and Kent can’t stop laughing. He knows what Tater’s body feels like against his now, knows how that overjoyed happiness manifests into crushing hugs that make Kent feel surrounded and safe. He knows that Tater really, really loves his Pittsburgh Penguins and just good hockey in general. When they leave, Tater’s voice is hoarse from yelling so much as he happily musses Kent’s hair.

“Knew I could make you Penguins fan,” Tater teases. The pack of people they’ve been walking through has started to disperse as they get further from the arena, so Kent gives Tater a good shove.

“I’m a _Crosby_ fan,” he says with a bright laugh. His chest actually hurts with how much he has been laughing today. It’s been years since he’s gone to an actual hockey game, and the Las Vegas expansion team won’t start playing for another year and a half. “I couldn’t care less about the rest of the team.”

Tater scoffs, reaching out to try and mess with Kent’s hair again. Kent dodges, but Tater just grabs his arm from behind. “What about Malkin?” he demands.

“I guess Malkin’s alright,” Kent concedes. He’s a little distracted by the way Tater’s hand wraps fully around his bicep, tugging at him without pinching. “But he’s no Crosby.”

“No, is better than Crosby," Tater chirps. “And much better than silly Rangers.” Well that is certainly the last straw.

“No way!” Kent crows, and he turns around to give Tater another good shove. But Tater just rocks with the blow, staying steady on his feet as he grabs Kent’s other arm and holds him tight. His momentum brings them closer together so that Kent is practically being held in Tater’s arms, looking up at his pink cheeks and wide, unabashed grin.

Kent’s heart-rate picks up again, face going hot and red as the blood pumps hard and heavy though his body. God, he could lean up, could get his lips on Tater’s, feel the Tater’s heat all along his front, taste the happiness right from his mouth. Kent wants to do, feels his body singing just from the idea of it. It would be easy to do so, Tater leaning forward himself as the smile on his face fades into something softer, tender and private and small shared into the shrinking space between them.

“Kent,” Tater breathes, nearly whispering. “Want to ask you something important.”

“Okay,” Kent stutters. He can’t stop watching Tater’s mouth, the way his tongue flickers out to lick his plush lips.

“There is event tomorrow, big art performance, very pretty to watch. We can go, together?”

Kent blinks, pulling back slightly. His hands are holding onto Tater’s shoulders, and he doesn’t remember when that happened. “Of course, of course. I like hanging out with you, Tater,” he answers, voice rasping a little. Tater frowns, and then says something under his breath in Russian.

“No, go _together_ ,” Tater emphasizes, “Go together like couple go together, like date go together.”

“Oh,” Kent says, voice squeaking on the sound. Tater looks so determined, brow furrowed lightly and lips pursed a little. “I would,” Kent clears his throat, “I would really like that.” Tater’s sigh is relieved, escaping him with a small smile, and then he leans in so close. His lips feels buss gently against Kent’s forehead, smooth and hot and so careful that Kent chokes on air a little.

The touch lingers, and Kent’s eyes fall closed to feel it better until Tater finally pulls completely away. His jubilant grin is back, but his touch is easy when he tucks Kent’s arm in his. “Must get you home now,” Tater says. “Will need to get good sleep for tomorrow.”

“Okay," Kent murmurs, letting Tater lead him back to their car. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Friday is can't move quick enough for Kent. The day drags on syrupy slow, and he finally has to just walk away from his phone so he’ll stop checking the time. Tater isn’t supposed to arrive until the evening, and then they’ll have dinner downtown before the performance starts. It’s some kind of outdoor thing, Kent knows, and it’s supposed to start once it gets dark, which means plenty of time spend with Tater – spend being on a _date_ with Tater – but not for hours yet.

He’s already restless and jittery by lunchtime. He’s showered carefully and spent nearly an hour getting dressed before fixing his hair. He looks good, hopefully good enough for Tater to want to do this again. Kit has vanished, probably still angry about being ditched yesterday, but at least that means Kent will have the minimum amount of cat hair on his dark wash jeans. He’s also wearing a flannel half-buttoned over a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms.

Still, for all that Kent is nervous, he forces himself to eat something. Making a nice lunch is one way to kill time, and Kent doesn’t want to pass out before he has a chance to fully enjoy Tater either. For once, he forgoes the premade food from Bitty in the fridge, instead pulling out ingredients to make a salad and toasted sandwich. He doesn’t let himself rush, carefully cutting carrots and onions into his salad and slicing thick chunks of Bitty’s homemade bread to toast in the oven.

It looks delicious when he’s done, and it smells even better – the tang of vinegar on his salad, the heavy scent of prosciutto baked with provolone on his sandwich, the toasted bread and melted butter with a little mustard for spice. Kent’s proud enough he even wants to take a picture and show it off to his mom, to Swoops, to Jack and Bitty, and even Tater. He leaves the kitchen and prays that Kit is still angry enough to avoid him and his food. Headding up the stairs, he laughs to himself, thinking that he might need to bring Tater in the house to give Kit some love tonight, if only so she’ll stop being insufferable.

He grabs his phone off the bed, unlocking it as he heads back downstairs. He’s just going to pull the camera up, but there is an email sitting in his notifications, and Kent doesn’t recognize the address. It seems important, so he opens it and reads.

He ends up sitting on the stairs, sliding down the wall into a hunched position, one hand tugging sharply at his hair. He’s messing it up; he styled it for a reason. It doesn’t matter. Words flicker before Kent’s eyes – civil summons – actions taken by one Dr. Kent Victor Parson – failed to uphold proper standard of care – presence required. Kit stands at the bottom of the stairs and meows, but Kent buries his head in his hands and tries not to shake apart.

 

* * *

 

He cancels the date, sends Tater a text to apologize, but it’s short and probably cold. He doesn’t respond when Tater texts back, doesn’t answer when Tater calls. Kent goes back upstairs instead. He crawls into bed under the comforter and doesn’t care that he’s wearing jeans or that he never ate the food still sitting at the kitchen table. Kit follows him, curls up on the pillow next to his head and stays silent.

He needs to make arrangements to go back to Vegas. He should contact a lawyer, or his malpractice insurance provider, and let them know what is happening. He will have to speak with the Nevada licensing board to go over his actions, to defend himself from both the state and the civil court. Instead, he pulls the blankets over his head. His sleep is heavy, lethargic, and filled with blackness.

 

* * *

 

Jack and Bitty come back Saturday morning. They wake Kent up, calling for him through the house, but he can’t bring himself to respond. There is panic in their voices, Jack’s especially, and Kent can hear Jack running up the stairs. His feet slam hard on the hardwood steps, echoing through the house. Kent blinks drowsily and wonders why he can’t just stay asleep.

“Kenny!” Jack yells. A hand grabs Kent’s shoulder, forcing him onto his back, and he stares up at Jack’s face, white with fright except for the red spots of exertion high on his cheeks. “Kenny, what happened?” Jack asks, and Kent can’t – he just can’t. He probably looks like a mess with red-rimmed eyes and tangled in his clothes; his mouth is sticky and tastes like charcoal.

Kent sits up, wraps his arms around Jack’s waist, and just cries into his chest. Jack holds him tightly through it, making soothing sounds and speaking lowly in French. His hands are smaller than Tater’s as he rubs Kent’s back, but it’s something Kent only notices distantly. He doesn’t hear Bitty come upstairs, but he must because there’s another voice speaking softly with Jack. Kent keeps crying until his eyes hurt and he has nothing left to give.

When Kent finally pulls back, Jack and Bitty are both sitting on the bed. Bitty has a hand over the blanket where Kent’s ankle is, eyes bright with unshed tears. Jack doesn’t look anymore composed, especially not with the tears soaked dark into his t-shirt. “What’s going on Kenny?" Jack asks again. Words are – words are too much right now, so Kent just grabs his phone and unlocks it. The email is still pulled up from yesterday, and he hands it to Jack.

Bitty and Jack read it together, and Kent watches as their eyes widen with horror near simultaneously. Bitty sits back with a gasped, quiet, “Oh good lord.” Jack’s frown is pointed and sharp, glaring at the phone as if that alone can change what it says. There isn’t much hope for that, so he just locks the screen and sets the phone down before turning back to Kent with warmth and worry shining in his eyes.

“I know someone that can help,” Jack says. He clasps one hand on Kent’s shoulder, but Kent shrugs it off. Who the fuck can help against the people that practically own a fucking city? How the fuck is he supposed to stand up to that, to the way they’ll bully him into submission and make him bleed every penny he has ever earned? There’s nothing that anyone can do against that. But Jack just insists, “They can help, Kenny. We can help if you’ll let us. We’re going to make this okay.”

It sounds like a lie, but it’s a nice one, so Kent just nods.

 

* * *

 

The office is too small for four adult men to comfortably share, but somehow the lawyer has managed to cram several chairs in amongst the stacks of papers and books and hockey memorabilia. The nameplate on the lawyer’s desk says “B. Knight”, but the man introduces himself as Shitty instead, insists on being called that, really. He’s got long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and a mustache that would look more at home in bad 70’s porn. None of it should fill Kent with any confidence, but Jack is sitting next to him, and Jack swears by this guy, so Kent’s willing to at least listen.

The fourth man in the room has dark skin and closely shaved hair. He is introduced as Justin Oluransi, the law firm’s medical consultant, but he also insists on a nickname (Ransom is at least more appropriate than Shitty). Plus he’s wearing board shorts. Again, not giving Kent any good feelings.

“Before we go any further,” Shitty says, “I want you to know that I have handled malpractice cases before, just not normally representing the defendant.” Kent nods, not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting. Shitty continues, “However, we’ve reviewed your case, and it does seem to fall within the parameters of what this office choses to stand for.”

“What does that mean?” Kent asks after clearing his throat. His voice still sounds abused, though he hasn’t done much talking the past few days. Just briefly to him mom, and even more briefly to Tater, explaining what has happened and what is going to happen next as best he knows.

Shitty lays his hands on the desk between them, palms up like he’s trying to show that he’s not a threat. “It means we think you’ve done nothing wrong, that you don’t deserve this, and that we want to help.”

Kent nods, and relief floods his chest like cool water over a fire. It’s not that he thought they wouldn’t help him exactly, but he needed to hear it from someone who knew what they were talking about, that he was good, that he didn’t cause this to happen.  He can barely say “thank you” over the hope rising in his throat.

“Of course," Shitty replies as if it’s fairly common for clients to be on the verge of relieved tears in his office – maybe it is? Shitty claps his hands together sharply, kicking his feet up on the desk and propping a notepad on his lap. “Alright,” he demands. “Start at the beginning.”

So Kent does. “I got a call that emergency services was bringing in an elderly male patient with a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. The patient had been diagnosed fairly late due to the presentation of unusual symptoms which confused the diagnosing physician...”

Kent shares it all while Shitty and Ransom take notes, and he tries not to hope too hard that it will all work out.

 

* * *

 

Kent has to go back to Vegas, and he’s not happy about it. He knew he would have to whether the lawsuit progressed or not because the licensing branch would want his testimony either way. However, that doesn’t mean Kent wants to be here.

At least he doesn’t have to spend an indefinite amount of time paying for a hotel, though. Swoops agrees to put him up for the whole time he’s in Vegas, and even picks him up from the airport. He pulls Kent into a tight hug immediately, and only lets go so he can punch him lightly in the shoulder.

“We’ve missed you, Parse!” Swoops says loudly. “It’s good to see you, even if the reason sucks.”

Kent laughs. Since speaking with Shitty, he feels like he really can do that again. Plus he’s got a picture of Tater kissing an unhappy Kit on his phone, sent sometime during the flight, and he feels kind of good about it. Swoops’ crooked smile rivals the Vegas sun as he laughs too. “Missed you too, Swoops,” Kent replies, and he swallows around how much he means it.

Not that it’s all easy going once Kent is back. There’s so many interviews and interrogations to attend, and the newspapers have picked up the story now, so Kent’s face is plastered everywhere in the city. Apparently it’s a slow news week in Vegas, because the city just won’t stop talking about the pending litigation. The whole mess might not even proceed to full court, as Shitty’s been lobbying the state to get the case thrown out, saying that there shouldn’t even be a case.

But after each terrible interrogation, and with each new story lambasting Kent’s character, there’s something good to balance it out. Tater calls and texts far more often then he should considering he’s back to work now. Jack and Bitty call every day as well, and so does Kent’s mom. Swoops is constantly inviting Kent’s former coworkers around, the nurses and other surgeons he has worked with for years. They go out to large dinners and get drinks together.

He learns that Samantha is going to have a baby with her girlfriend, and that Kavi has finally proposed to his girlfriend, and that Nilaa is about to finish her residency and start her own career. The investigation drags out into the summer, but it doesn’t seem so bad when each night ends with Tater happily recapping his day over the phone, and when Bitty sends delicious care packages that make Swoops cry with delight.

But finally, as the summer draws to a close, the case is dropped for lack of evidence without ever going to court, and Kent can go _home_.

 

* * *

 

It is the last Friday in August and so late in the evening that the sun has already set. The sidewalks of Downcity Providence are packed to the max around the river, but Tater had ensured that he and Kent were early enough to get a spot right at the center of one of the walking bridges. Kent is leaning forward against the railing of the bridge, hands folded lightly on top of the safety bar, and he watches people shift and move on either side of the water for as far as he can see.

He doesn’t feel trapped though, or particularly crowded, because Tater is at his back, a burning heat that keeps the rest of the mob at bay. It’s nice, nice enough that Kent doesn’t want to say anything. They had done a lot of talking over steak dinners before coming to the bridge, talking about what they wanted for themselves and each other, what Kent’s plans were for staying in Providence, what they might like their futures to look like together. Kent feels pretty empty of words, chest hollow and echoing, so he lets the beautiful night and Tater’s heat fill him up instead.

Music is echoing down the river paths. There’s an orchestra somewhere farther up, playing soft, lilting melodies that carry with the flow of the river water. He can smell the smoke of wood fire too, knows what is going to happen even if Tater had insisted on not talking about it. The braziers that sit in the river are pretty obvious, and Kent knows as the music builds that the gondola lighting the bonfires is approaching.

Tater leans in closer, pressing up tightly against Kent’s back with one hand on the railing at his elbow and the other pointing forward. “Look Kent... Kenny,” he whispers. His cheek is pressed against Kent’s temple, and Kent pushes into the contact humming his acknowledgement. Tater shifts even tighter against him.

The boat is nearly invisible from the distance, so it looks only like the fires are bursting into life on their own. The red and orange light contrasts sharply with the deep blue water, dancing in patches and strips on the gently lapping waves of the river’s surface. A crescendo of claps rises with each brazier lit, and as the fires draw closer, Kent can hear the gasps of the watching crowd too. The fires crackle with embers drifting up on the rising breeze, and a child laughs nearby.

Tater chuckles too when the fire just in front of them catches. If he wasn’t so close, the sound of it would be lost under the roar of the growing flames, the spitting hiss of wood burning quickly. Kent can feel that laugh in his body, rumbling through his chest and down into his toes. His own laugh follows after as he straightens slightly, pushing back into the dense, lanky man behind him.

An arm wraps around Kent’s waist, a searing belt of heat holding him in place. Kent places his hand over Tater’s, and looks back over his shoulder. “Kenny,” Tater whispers again as he tilts Kent’s chin up and brings their lips together in a kiss. Happiness tastes faintly like red wine and potatoes, surrounded by strong arms, the crackle of fire and the salty brine of the ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> This story got WILDLY out of hand, like woah.
> 
> It really started as a dumb brain nugget when I was trying to share the image of a stupid Las Vegas tourist shirt that I thought Kent would definitely probably own. But I sent the wrong link. So what I ended up saying was that in Kent Parson's closet, there was definitely a large Russian hockey player with a massive dick. Which, to be fair, is not necessarily a bad thing if you like dicks.
> 
> Needless to say, that sparked this whole misadventure of a story, but I gave put the feelings into it too because I'm me and that's what I do.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
